


Keep Me Warm

by yespolkadot_kitty



Category: Star Wars - All Media Types, The Mandalorian (TV)
Genre: Baby Yoda - Freeform, F/M, FEELINGS HOLY SHIT FEELINGS, Huddling For Warmth, Kissing, Oral Sex, Vaginal Sex, but it's pitch black, magic hand thing, soft!Din, the helmet comes off
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-09
Updated: 2020-11-09
Packaged: 2021-03-09 10:55:34
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,750
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27469873
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/yespolkadot_kitty/pseuds/yespolkadot_kitty
Summary: You can't reconcile a word like "snuggle" with the Mandalorian.
Relationships: Din Djarin/Reader, Din Djarin/You, The Mandalorian/Reader
Comments: 13
Kudos: 379





	Keep Me Warm

You can’t remember when  _ exactly _ it started. Maybe when you saw him comforting the kid after a nightmare in the cockpit.

The armoured man hadn’t known you were there; you’d just woken up, heard the rasp of his voice, modulated by the helmet.

“Hey, it’s okay. It’s okay, kid. I got you.”

Then the Child’s little mewls and coos. In the half-light coming out of the cockpit, you saw their silhouettes, the broad, armoured man, and the tightly curled body of the tiny creature he protects with his life.

After that, you never stop  _ noticing  _ him with the kid. 

How open he is with the little critter now. How they almost seem to have their own language. 

How broad he is when he cradles the little green body against his unyielding beskar. The husky baritone of his voice when he comforts the young one.

How  _ kind _ he is.

How the kid mostly listens to him on what not to do.

_ Well, mostly  _ mostly _. _

Four months ago, you’d been working at a dive bar on Tattooine. Serving drinks to the few patrons that wandered out here, making ends meet by moonlighting as a mechanic to those that couldn’t afford accredited labour - although anyone looking for accredited  _ anything _ on Tattooine would be shit outta luck.

You’d been returning to what passed for the service counter - a pile of shabby stone blocks - when a karking awful regular’s hand had smacked your ass. It wasn’t the first time - kriffing lowlife - but if you retaliated, you’d be punished. Had been before.

A second later, the offender cried out. You turned, startled, to see his hand twist back midair until his knuckles touched his wrist, breaking bones.

The bar had been empty save a heavily armoured man and a gurgling baby. Your gaze shot to them. The baby had its small green hand lifted and its eyes closed.

You look from the baby to the offender. “Did your kid… just….?”

The man gathered the baby up in his arms. He lifted his head, the visor pointed to you. “Three hundred credits to forget you saw that.”

“He really did that?”

The armoured man’s helmet tilted, as if considering. “He doesn’t like idiots. If I’d seen whatever that stoopa was about to do to you, pretty sure I’d agree with the kid.”

The baby fell backwards, eyes closed, with a sigh, and you gasped in alarm. “Is - is he okay?”

“He’ll be fine.” The visor tilted again, as if the man was assessing you. “So. Do we have a deal? Three hundred?”

You stared at the baby for another second. “I don’t want your credits.” You spared a glance at the portly man writhing on the floor wailing and clutching his hand. “I want a ride off this planet.”

And so, thanks to a detour involving evading old enemies (his) and a refueling stop thanks to a mechanical error (yours), you’d ended up settling into a rhythm. The armoured man - a  _ Mandalorian, _ some you met called him - would leave for bounties and you’d stay with the kid.

You’d looked up  _ Mandalorian _ on the datapad. Learned about why you never saw even an inch of skin, and why you likely never would.

But you had plenty of contact with the kid.

He was an affectionate sort. Cuddly, talkative, quick on his feet. And hungry, every second of the day and night. Your rudimentary cooking skills had never been more in demand. Living on Tattooine, you’d had no choice but to become adept at turning the most random foodstuffs into something edible and preferably, palatable. 

On a whim, bored and tired of dry rations, you’d made a fancy feast after scoring some fresh meat at a farmer’s homestead on Lah’mu. 

“Never letting you go now,” the Mandalorian drawled. You hadn’t been able to tell if he was joking through the filter.

Tonight, it’s cold. So cold. The Mandalorian has landed the ship on some icy backwater to avoid Imperial scanners patrolling the area. You try and burrow deeper into the thickly woven blankets you’d squirrelled away, but it doesn’t really help. If you drink any more of the hideous bone broth the Mandalorian keeps for the kid, you’ll turn into whatever creature it’s made of. Hooves probably aren’t that good for mechanical what-nots.

The ship creaks a little. You wonder where the Mandlorian is. Probably holed up in his small - but  _ warm _ \- bunk with the kid. The little guy sleeps in a hammock above Mando’s pallet. You’ve seen glimpses of it, but you often assume that the kid waits until the man is asleep before dropping down and burrowing in.

After all, if  _ you _ were anywhere near his broad form, that deep raspy voice, those long legs, you know you wouldn’t stay in the hammock.

You shiver in earnest. Looking around, you see Mando’s cloak hanging off a storage box. You grab it, wrap it over your pile of blankets. It improves the warmth a little, but the  _ scent _ of the fabric - faux lemon armour polish, the crisp cold of outdoors and something pleasantly musky and uniquely  _ him _ \- that makes taking the cloak worthwhile.

You fall into a sort-of fitful doze.

“Kriff.”

You jerk awake, look up to see the helmet tilted towards you. Is it just you or does the visor look slightly exasperated? Over the months you’ve come to ascribe emotions to his various helmet positions, as both a way to pass the time, and, to try to connect to the Razor Crest’s mysterious captain.

“Why didn’t you say you were cold?”

You move aching limbs. “Didn’t want to invade… your private space.”

The Mandalorian mutters something that sounds like a curse. He leans down and scoops you up, blankets and cloak and all, as if you weigh nothing at all. Still sleepy, you lean into his chest, wait for the clunk of your cheek on beskar.

It doesn’t come.

_ He’s not wearing armour. _

His broad, firm chest is solid under your cheek. The tunic he wears is plain black, serviceable, a thick weave. It’s worn, the fabric pliable in contrast to his unyielding muscle.

“Your armour,” you mutter, drunk on tiredness and on his welcoming warmth.

“Don’t need it on the ship.”

_ Of course, _ you think tiredly. “Where’re we going?”

“To get warm.”

He never elaborates on anything. Never uses five words if one will do. But you don’t mind. You’ve become used to long journeys with not much said.

“Where’s… Kid?”

“In his crib. Temp controlled.”

You give up and close your eyes. The rhythm of his walk lulls you back into a semi-doze. You wake again when he steps over the division between the main part of the ship and his bunk - little more than a double-wide crawl space with a pallet and the hammock for the kid.

You jerk your head up. “I can’t sleep in here!”

The helmet tilts. “Rather freeze to death?”

“ _ No. _ I mean… we can’t sleep together.”

He hesitates. “Suit yourself. I’ll sleep in the cockpit.”

He starts to set your down on the pallet and you cling to him. “No. I mean - it’s so cold up there. I mean, I can’t -” you force yourself into wakefulness. “What about your helmet?”

“You got a light on you?”

You frown. “No?”

“Then we’re good.”

And he sets you down on the pallet and presses a button, and the darkness is total.

You cast around for a second, but soon realise it’s fruitless, and you lie down. Immediately the blankets, as well as a thicker covering, are draped over you, and you’re  _ warm. _ Kriff, so warm. You luxuriate in the feeling. Of not shivering.

The pallet moves and you know it’s the Mandalorian, lying down beside you. You hear the  _ hiss _ of armour releasing.

_ His helmet. _

You squeeze your eyes shut and turn your back to him. “I’m not looking!” you squeak.

He chuckles, but it’s a soft sound, not mocking. “I made sure it’s pitch black in here. You’re good. Try and get some rest.”

His voice sounds different - no less sexy - without his helmet. The rasp isn’t as deep. But. It feels… more intimate.

“Does he.. The kid... ever come in here?”  _ To snuggle,  _ you nearly say. But you can’t reconcile a word like  _ snuggle _ with the Mandalorian.

“Not if he knows what’s good for him.” But there’s a smile in his voice.

“So… he does?” 

“Are you gonna go to sleep?” he drawls, but again, that smile colours his voice. He knows what your real question is.

“I might wake up and see you,” you insist. You’re trying to respect his creed and you are panicking about it, a little, but you’re also  _ so _ warm.

“Too dark in here. Can’t even see my own hand. Besides. If you freeze to death, who’ll make sure the kid gets fed? Who’ll make sure  _ I _ get fed?”

You smile, staring at what is probably the wall. You can’t tell; it really is too dark. “Pretty sure you were doing that just fine before me.”

“Yeah, well. There’s fine and then there’s…” he trails off, and you wish you could see his face.

And then tiredness overwhelms you and you sleep.

**********

You’re not sure how much time has passed when you wake. There’s a comforting weight across your waist, and a head pressed up under your chin.

You jolt when you realise.

_ The Mandalorian. _

You open your eyes, but true to his earlier word, it’s pitch black. 

The Mandalorian’s arm is heavy across your body. Under your chin, his hair feels soft, a little curly. You hesitate, and then, before you can rethink it, you lift your hand and brush your fingers over his temple.

He stirs; you snatch your hand back.

With a groan, he pulls away. “Sorry.”

“No, no -” you don’t know what to say, so you tug him toward you again. When your bodies meet, you feel him, hard and hot, against your lower belly.  _ Oh. _ Of your own volition, your hips roll forward.

“ _ Dammit, _ ” you hear him curse. “Didn’t mean - just wanted to keep you warm.” His body is tense against yours. “Don’t expect you to-”

You’re fully awake now. Awake enough to appreciate the solid warmth of him. The way his hand is clenched into a fist on your hip. Like he wants to touch, but won’t let himself. The scent of him, the armour polish, the kiss of fresh, woodsmoke aroma from outside that his clothes carry. 

“I know you don’t  _ expect _ . But I... want to.”

He is silent for a moment. This shouldn’t bother you. He’s usually silent. But then three words carry to you.

“Are you sure?”

His voice is huskier than before you slept, more similar to how it sounds through the filter. You’ve always loved it, but when he talks to you like  _ this, _ no helmet, just you two in the darkness - the intimacy is  _ sublime. _

“Yes. I’ve wanted to for… a while.”

And then he pulls you into his body and rolls you under him, and  _ oh, oh. _

His lips are firm and warm on yours, kissing you closed-mouth for a moment, and then he adds gentle pressure, and you feel the scruff on his face. It isn’t enough, you want more, and you lift your hands, slide one into his hair and trail the other up his jaw, feel the wiry hair there, revel in the scratch of it.

“Dreamed of you. Like this,” he murmurs against your mouth. “Under me.”

You open your lips for him.

He murmurs an  _ mmmmmm, _ and the reverberation of his deep voice in his chest thrills you, that  _ you _ coaxed that sound from him.

You try to conjure the topography of his face from the data gathered from your fingertips. The curve of a proud nose. The shape of his brows - the slight furrow as your fingers ghost over them. Then, when he breaks the kiss, you trace his lower lip with your thumb - he has a little crease there; like a maker’s mark for a job to be admired.

“Beautiful,” you say.

He chuckles, that rasp melted sugar on grits, and kisses you again. His hands slide down to your hips as he presses into you, letting you know how much you’re wanted. Needed.

Your tongues dance, hesitantly at first, and then he’s kissing you with a fiery passion you’d never have guessed hid beneath the cool helmet. Emotionless, you might have said before. But, you know that isn’t the correct word. He exudes  _ plenty _ of emotion. When he’s caring for the kid. When he took you away from the skeezy dive bar. When he held you to his chest in the cold hull of the ship.

He murmurs your name and then you feel him shift. Feels like he’s braced above you, and he starts kissing his way down your cheeks, over your jaw, then nipping at your neck. Your clothes are  _ too much, _ and you shove at them.

“Take these off,” you tell him.

“Always know what you want,” he mutters against your neck. “I like that.”

His hands are gun-calloused, the hands of a fighter, a soldier. They’re not soft. But you don’t want some soft Imperial boy. You want this man, this contrast of hard and caring, the man who speaks so little but still telegraphs so much.

It’s perhaps a little awkward, the wriggles as he removes your clothes, especially in the pitch darkness - all three layers as it did get  _ kriffing _ cold. But then his hands are on your skin, and he cups your breasts in his palms and  _ oh, oh. _

You walk your fingers up his arms and slide your hands into his hair, and he groans a little in his throat.

For a while you let him explore you. Enjoy the tickle of his scruff and the calloused-rough of his broad-palmed hands. And then you need  _ more, _ to feel more, and you tug at the thick weave of his tunic. You feel him shift - sitting up maybe? - and hear the slide of fabric, over and over as he discards his layers. You try to imagine the tease and pull of his muscles under his skin - what colour? And would he be tan? Probably not - and  _ wish _ you could see him.

But he’s giving you this, and it’s more than enough, more than you’d dreamed you could have.

Then his body meets yours again, and his mouth is hot on your breasts, and you clutch at his hair and arch up into him. He mutters a curse and the delicious heft of his cock is heavy on your thigh. 

“Please,” you say into the darkness. You don’t know what you’re asking for, not really, but he seems to understand. You feel him kiss down your body, tracing a path with his lips and fingers, and then he parts you where you’re already  _ so wet _ for him, and the flick of his tongue is obscene.

He’s relentless in the quest for your pleasure. Your body bows and you press into his mouth - it’s much easier to be uninhibited in total darkness. When you come, you wish you could taste your name on his lips, but you settle for “Mando,” whispered in a breath that shudders.

His scruff tickles the inside of your thigh when he kisses you there. “Dammit. Haven’t got…. Anything.”

“I have the implant.”

There’s a second of hesitation and you think  _ oh kriff, he’s changed his mind _ \- and then the blankets rustle and he’s hard and hot and heavy on top of you, his broad hands spreading your legs, and he’s inside you in the next breath. You wrap your arms around his back, your fingers mapping the cartography of scars that have shaped him, and he strokes your hair back from your forehead. His arms must be braced either side of you. It’s strange, this darkness, but so intimate, you can’t bring yourself to mind.

Your muscles are fluttering around his cock from the shattering orgasm still echoing in you, and you hear him groan against your lips, his hips faltering for a scant second. You lift your face, bump noses for a second, and then he kisses you fiercely. He knows these moments are rationed. The helmet will be back on soon, the armour - both material and emotional - firmly in place, but for now you’re both just a tangle of limbs and loving and skin and caresses and sighs.

And the memory of this will keep you warm on the iciest planet.

  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  



End file.
